


Is That A Cat?

by NightTimeRush



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Gen, Mentions of Blood, Mentions of Past Animal Death, Please let the man rest, Soft Family Feels, V is a very tired man, V remembers his past as Vergil, angsty family feels, heavy introspection, mentions of gore, who just wants to sleep
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-06-21
Packaged: 2020-05-15 15:16:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19298347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NightTimeRush/pseuds/NightTimeRush
Summary: He's not quite certain of what wakes him, not at first anyway.Unfortunately, It is not a new occurrence, by any means.





	1. Cries in the Night

**Author's Note:**

> This is very self indulgent. And kind of long. Whoops.
> 
> Also as I've said in the tags, there is a very brief mention of past animal death. A bird specifically. It's mentioned in passing, in a flashback. Other than that, it's all canon typical violence, blood, and gore.
> 
> I'll update tags and add warnings in the notes accordingly, if anything else warranting a cw/tw gets added! Feel free to lmk in the comments if I missed any warning, and I'll fix it right away.

He's not quite certain of what wakes him, not at first anyway.

  


Unfortunately, It is not a new occurrence, by any means.

  


They've been at this for nearly a month, V reckons; and at this point, he knows what to expect -- knows what being awoken in the middle of the night can only mean. It's become a routine of sorts, one V is very familiar with by now, one he truly _dreads_ with his entire crumbling being. He knows very well what has awoken him. It's always the same.

  


In retrospect, it is the smack middle of a demon apocalypse, after all; and sleep is something more of a -- _luxury_ , if anything, not to be taken for granted. Something that got _frequently_ interrupted by the sounds of demons frolicking about, occasionally waking one of them in the dead of the night, when Red Grave's newly acquired wild life got a tad bit too -- _rowdy_.

  


And V knows all too well that demons can be loud, obnoxious -- so frustratingly _inconsiderate_ . They were _demons_ after all, he can hardly blame them. They didn't _do_ respect unless they were subjugated into submission by stronger, bigger, and more vicious demons.

  


Then it became respect _or die._

  


V thinks he can hear them, through the walls of the van. Roaming, chittering, and it seems they have not done as thorough a job of clearing up the pest problem in this area as they had initially thought. And the more the seconds are allowed to tick by, the more it becomes harder to believe that Nero isn't already out there, dual wielding Blue Rose in one hand, Red Queen in the opposite, _beating them into silence_ in his sleep deprived haze.

  


He's seen the young Hunter take his anger out on devils ten stories high. V had been witness to the man nearly biting off the head of a Pyrobat with nothing but his blunt teeth and pure aggravation. The boy didn't do well with being disturbed mid nap.

  


It's a miracle, really, that the lack of proper sleep hasn't turned them even more combative and destructive than usual. What with their grab-bag of mixed temperaments.

  


The imminent threat of them eventually turning against each other has been heavy in the air -- more so than the playful bickering and light hearted teasing that emerged after mere seconds at most of being placed within each others vicinity. The quips had definitely evolved at some point to hold the potential for violence, hidden deep within the words spewn about without much thought or care, after the fifth consecutive night without proper sleep. After three weeks of much the same, littered here and there with the blessed full nights rest.

  


And they've all truly done their damndest to redirect their aggression to more productive means of destruction, the victims of their aborted confrontations nothing but stains on the brick pavement, once they had been done unleashing their collective frustrations upon the hordes.

  


But they're tired. All of them.

  


V is very much aware of that admittedly frustrating fact -- once a factoid to his late partially demonic blood; plasma that did not bend easily to ridiculous whims such as sleeping, or eating. Once upon a time it had kept Vergil alive through the decade or so that he actually recalls being in Hell _\--_ where sleep got you killed, and food consisted of rotten demon carcass along with vegetation native only to the Underworld _._

  


All blood which as of now he no longer possessed -- not really, not fully. He had long since made acquaintance with the long time coming lesson the very first night his half of a Whole had been cast away with little care, to this new _frail_ body; when after just mere hours of collecting his newborn self, he had felt the exhaustion deep within his bones, and the fatigue had blurred his vision with a lack of consideration for survival only a human would experience in full.

  


The following hunt for clothing and sustenance just pressed a fistful of salt into the wound, as V had navigated the world on trembling legs, stumbling around like nothing more than a mere babe, whom had just learned how to take its first few uncoordinated steps, already yawning with gusto at the strain it put on the new flesh, and ache it brought to his muscle. Twelve or so hours -- give or taketh, was the time limit forced upon humans, before they start to feel the strain on their weak and delicate bodies, nothing more than a consequence to the various and _necessary_ daily activities that ensured the _survival of their species._ Such mundane needs -- yet enough to require eight full hours of sleep post the extortion. A preposterous concept to a Demon hybrid.

  


_Oh, how inefficient was the human body_.

  


And _his_ currently human body, required way more sleep than Vergil had ever allowed himself.

  


Alas, V knows ‘bitching’ about it -- as Dante would kindly put it, was most certainly not going to get him anywhere. He _was_ human now, plain and simple, and though the -- _downgrade,_ had happened just a little over three weeks ago, V still found himself struggling every step of the way with the concept and forced physical traits of suddenly being fully _human._ The only demonic blood coursing through him lacking enough substance to accomplish anything but keep his fraying flesh knit together, just long enough for him to see through his goal. To fix Vergil's mistake, Vergil's _regret._ To clean the mess his Whole had made, the urgency only accentuated by Dante's defeat.

  


He had to accept that fact, be it at face value, or with the tag-along understanding of his new body's limits and needs.

  


At this point, he's very well acquainted with the ever dreaded concept of simple and nerve grating _lack of sleep._

  


And the variety of sounds, that constantly echoed and bounced off the brick and concrete walls of Red Grave City? Nothing but its own current ( _and classy, as Nico sarcastically described it in a fit of her own rage )_ personal alarm system. It simply signaled that it was time to get back to work, and sleep was pushed to the backburner of their priority list, which meant _his_ priority list _, too._

  


It was necessary, of course. The roots were growing and spreading at an increasing rate. Each day conquering the land, bit by bit as they stretched across the human world, devouring anything that stood before the Demon Tree. And the _fault --_ the one to _blame_ was _Vergil_ , not Urizen. All the fully blooded but incomplete demon -- _his other half,_ could ever hope to amount to was a one track minded _menace._ And V's human potential for things such as empathy, understanding, and _regret_ , were enough for the man to take the responsibility upon himself, his needs be damned.

  


In comparison, insomnia was but a minor ail. One soon to be over with, once he succeeded in his goal.

  


Regardless, for the time being, V didn't have to _like it._

  


With a muffled groan, he abandoned his incomplete and useless musings, leaving them behind in favor of working on building up the sheer willpower necessary to crack his heavy and tired eyelids open, still tinted with soft red, swollen around the edges in consequence of dragging himself through days of demon slaying, with no visible end in sight.

  


Only to then be followed by nights laced with incomplete and frequently interrupted sleep was an insult.

  


He was _tired_ , damn It.

  


It's just a fraction, millimeters at most -- but enough to get a quick glance of the surrounding darkness that cloaks the entirety of the old and squeaky van. The sun has yet to even rise, he realizes, and suddenly he can feel his mood sour even further. _What a simple and human reaction_ \-- he allows himself to unabashedly complain for just moment longer, before exhaling a small gust of air through his nose, in complete and utter annoyance.

  


As mundane as it may be, V decides in that moment that he's in fact, not an early riser. He _enjoys_ sleep. And perhaps it was just another small and insignificant difference between himself, and his full -- _Whole_ _self_. He takes more than a moment to ponder if this is the reason Dante has always refused to rise at any point before noon, when the sun had already risen to its highest point in the sky, the bright light only stopped in its tracks by heavy and dark light-absorbing curtains draped across the large windows of their childhood bedroom.

  


_'Only the best!' He remembers Dante proudly informing a much younger version of himself, sporting hair white as snow and eyes blue as ice, back when all they cared about was school, fighting each other for everything and anything, sparring, and loving their still living mother._

  


And V just does not have it in himself to disagree with his twin brother.

  


If only Dante knew how much V _agreed_ and bordered the line of envying the man’s lifestyle, as uncharacteristic for any part of Vergil as it may be. The unapologetic lust for life his brother had openly bled ever since they were children. His boisterous approach to nearly everything, in a way that would only serve to aggravate Vergil. Oh, how easy going Dante could truly be, roaming the world with ease, taking everything as it came -- in stride, with simplicity and not a care in the world. How _liberating_ it must truly be, to not obsess over such things as _power_ , and _might_ , and _failure._ Dante was not a fan of complicated, avoided it like he avoided his debts. And yet his brother had grown into possibly the most complicated man V knows. And perhaps that was one of his self-sabotaging flaws -- some things just tended to be _complicated_. And V knows Dante knows. His brother -- ever the simple man.

  


But they've always been the avoidant pair. In that aspect, they are the same.

  


And Vergil, in turn, had lacked any appreciation for the simpler things in life, always aiming bigger than what he could truthfully and _realistically_ handle, in the most blatant showcase of arrogance.

  


He knows he'll change his mind, upon re-merging with Urizen. Though a part of him wonders -- hopes, that maybe this time he's really learned his lesson. That Vergil will allow himself to _slow down_ , and enjoy life for what it was -- as the _human being_ he partially was.

  


V knows he's dreaming big. Some things never changed.

  


Quite unfortunate, really.

  


But he doesn't get the time to carry on with his moping, before he's very quickly forced to take notice of the occasional, and _invasive_ harsh flickering of a dying nearby street lamp.

  


It's the only visible light seeping through dull yellow curtains, casting quick and fleeting shadows across the small space at uneven intervals of a few seconds at most. It's almost aggravating, the flickering inciting a burst of pain behind his eyeballs, and the migraine that's slowly creeping upon him is enough to make the mans lips raise in a quiet snarl. He ignores the ridiculous and sleep deprived moment of kin he finds himself feeling towards the light's struggle to stay on, functioning, even when the entire city has partially quite literally gone to Hell, buried under thick layers blood, gore, and demon roots.

  


Just as he's about force his body to roll over onto his side, in an attempt to shove his face into the filthy and ruined cushion, the _sound_ echoes through the streets again, reaching his ears once more, even through the metal and aluminum walls of the van that keeps him and his -- _team mates,_ separated from the outside world. It's a peculiar one -- V thinks now that he's awake enough to fully acknowledge it, and it immediately fills him to the brim with child-like curiosity, very much bordering on morbid.

  


It _is_ a demon apocalypse, after all.

  


It's too soft, too high pitched, and too -- gentle, V decides, once he's gained enough consciousness to run the odd sound against his ever increasing mental database of demonic gurgles and hisses. He can sense Shadow against his skin, awake and alert, tattoos rippling in perhaps what V could consider just as much curiosity as he's currently harboring as well. Griffon, however, appears to be quite dead to the world, oblivious to his surroundings as said demonic bird snores away atop the dark haired man's chest.

  


He seemingly has claimed the spot for himself at some point during the night, as V does not recall their position being such earlier in the evening, when he first laid his sore and aching body across the beat up leather couch, praying to whatever higher being deemed him worthy enough to lend an ear to his request of a full night's sleep, undisturbed by the nightmares he was cast away with, a burden cleanly discarded by his demon half -- _no,_ discarded by his Whole.

  


Another discovery, V wasn't too keen on. He was a light sleeper.

  


Which doesn't seem to be a problem that ails the other inhabitants of the van, both of which appear to be currently snoring away as well, just as oblivious as Griffon.

  


The sounds echo from two opposite directions, V notes, as they've all laid claim to their own little personal corner of the only comfort they'll be getting for the time being. He almost feels something akin to guilt, as he knows he's likely the one to have claimed what was probably the most comfortable spot in the van.

  


_'You need it more than us buddy, trust me. Plus, Nico and I already have our designated spots. Fought over them a long time ago' --_ Nero had informed him the first night he had been offered said couch, and politely refused, with the strong aid of guilt and awkwardness, a new mix of emotion he had found himself not quite knowing what to make of -- no, not new, merely forgotten until then, something he had not experienced in a while.

  


_There was no place for such in Hell, after all._

  


He had still felt the gratefulness fill him to the brim, however, when he had let himself sink into the cushions, sleep overtaking him quickly.

  


Once V finally finds the last shred of strength within him to push himself upright, his hands immediately fly to his head, heels desperately pressing into his eye sockets in the pathetic attempt to make the headache brewing there _cease at once._

  


He ignores the sleeping bird at first, disregarding his companions comfort as he quite frankly and concisely shoved the demon off himself; pausing only once he's realized his mistake. He amends it quickly by grabbing hold of the bird's split beak, cutting off the loud squawk that threatened to make its way out of the demons throat, lest he wake the entire van _._

  


And that is the absolute last thing he wishes to do. He had enough decency to not want to disturb his sleeping -- V honestly has no clue what to refer to them as.

  


Doesn't think he ever will, most likely.

  


With Griffon out of the way, he's now free to glance around, green eyes searching for Nero, and Nico.

  


He immediately spots one of the two people in question in the passenger's seat, white hair poking out from behind more beat up leather, soft breaths and snores interrupted by the occasional grunt and snort as the man shifted positions in his sleep. Perhaps to get more comfortable, or perhaps due to what V can only assume is the boy's own personal hell that corners them all once they've shut their eyes, and made themselves vulnerable to the minds cruel endless wandering and sadistic lack of consideration for the human need of decent _sleep._

  


The other one -- the woman, is… _somewhere_ in the van. He is not quite sure where she retreats to during the night, nor does he particularly care to find out. He would like to consider himself a gentleman, who does not need to know where Nico spends the nights in the vulnerable grasp of sleep.

  


V can hear her though, and that's enough. The _sounds_ of the other two -- _three, if you were to count Griffon --_ living and breathing bodies are enough to let V know that they are here, close, present, _alive_ . And it's oddly comforting, calming in a way V never expected from sharing a space with other _people_.

  


But _Vergil_ knew, didn't he.

  


He whom had shared a bed with another body as small as his own, during nights of loud lightning crackling through the pitch black sky, and the resulting thunder that boomed loud and mighty, making the entire mansion light up and then shake under its wild and uncontrollable might. He whom had sought comfort and protection in the arms of another- a body, warm and alive and familiar. Whom, on calm summer nights, found peace in the soft even breaths of his brother, sleeping in his own bed across the room -- their room. Shared, with utter disregardance to the sheer size of the mansion they resided in: large enough for them to each have their own space. And yet they had never left the nursery, where once upon a time they had shared a crib. The furniture had changed throughout time, two beds instead of one crib, two desks -- one for each, two bookshelves, two wardrobes, two wooden toy chests -- two of everything, but never two rooms.

 

Yes, Vergil would have known, and yet the fool had thrown it all away. _He_ , had thrown it all away.

  


It's another sound that catches his attention this time.

  


Griffon, actually, who seems to be struggling -- ah, he had yet to release the poor avian hadn't he. V figures he can take care of two birds with one stone, so to speak, when he summons the loud demon back upon his skin without a word, nor an explanation.

  


But there's still one more sound he's still not quite sure what to make of. The weird high pitched -- _keening_ , for lack of better understanding. It suddenly hits V -- he finds himself with a probable reason as to why Shadow has been restless ever since they had awoken.

  


Perhaps it wasn't a demon after all.

  


But it does nothing to quell the dark haired man's curiosity -- no, it does just the opposite, throwing fuel on the fire. He seeks answers, he's awake, standing, and the sound carries on, if anything with increased vigor that brings the feeling of restlessness from the pit of V's stomach up to his throat.

  


And before his brain can begin to make any sort of coherent thought process -- force his sense of self preservation to kick in, he's already at the door, fingers gently grasping the metal handle as he fumbles with it, the scene much reminiscent of a child attempting to sneak out without making noise lest its parents wake.

  


Which proved to be increasingly more difficult the more he twists the handle, the old van needing an overall oiling to each of its squeaky joints. The act has V lightly sweating cold -- he really does feel like a child, meant to be in bed, misbehaving by sneaking out way past his bedtime. It has his heart beating quicker, unleashing a good dose of adrenaline through his veins, that washes over him in a swift wave that almost threatens to force a chuckle out of him. It _is_ quite a ridiculous sight. A grown ass man trying to sneak out, gripping the handle so hard his knuckles have long since turned white, trying desperately to mentally shush the object into submission.

  


Turns out, it's not the act of pulling the door handle that should have worried V, but the subsequent act of actually pushing the vans door open, something he should have preemptively realized would have been as loud ( _if not more)_ as twisting the handle had been, the metal sounding a loud groan ending in a squeak that has V cringing with his entire body.

  


It's enough to make him freeze in place, his breathing loud in his ears, his heart in his throat, as he quickly listens for any sign that he has awakened the other two.

  


He only allows himself to breathe again when the gurgles of something intelligible and the shuffling of a body re-adjusting both desist, leaving room for the soft snores to resume.

  


A small spiteful part of him swore to no one in particular that he'd take it upon himself to oil every nook and cranny of the blasted thing, in the eventuality that -- what? A situation like this was hard pressed to ever happen again. Yet the stress of the whole ordeal had him giddy in a way that did indeed match that of a child.

  


Truthfully, he is not entirely sure why he's loitering, of all things. Sparda knew Vergil wouldn't have lingered long. He had been a man who knew what he wanted, and stopped at nothing to get it, consequences be damned, if considered at all to begin with. But that was just the problem here, wasn't it. He was not Vergil in his _entirety._ There were bound to be decisions made without the input of a devil.

  


This one so far, was perhaps the most humanly humble one he's ever made. Such a small seemingly inconsequential decision, acted upon in selfless respect towards someone else.

  


It was kind of ridiculous, in an oddly peaceful way, V supposed. He found he didn't mind at all.

  


“What in the everloving Hell do you think you're doing princess!”

  


V's eyes snapped upwards, his gaze meeting a mess of sclera and dark pupils, three on each side.

  


“Griffon.” V warned.

  


“Ho Hooo! Sneaking out at night? I knew you were a moody rebellious teenager, but this just seems a tad bit too risque Mr. Poetry, dontcha'think?”

  


With a light hop, the soles of V's sandals hit the uneven and filthy brick pavement beneath the vans wheels.

  


“Shush, Griffon.” He had just gone through the trouble of keepin as quiet possible.

  


“Yeah yeah -- hey, listen, if you're going to take walks in the dead ass middle of the night how about you don't leave your cane behind, huh?”

  


Ah, right.

  


How foolish of him. He had sensed something amis, he must have been groggier than expected -- scatterbrained. Forgetting his weapon, of all things would surely backfire horribly.

  


They had exterminated the demons that inhabited the surrounding area, yes -- mercilessly and (at the time) efficiently, before deeming it safe enough to relax for the time being. But Red Grave was nothing more than a husk of what was once a booming and bubbling city, with an active nightlife to match V had discovered; before the Qliphoth had sucked the literal blood out of it, leaving nothing but ash and destruction in its wake.

  


Griffon had a point, however. It certainly wasn't one of his smartest decisions, wandering into the blackness of the night, where demons swarmed and hunted and feasted on the blood sacs littered about. Not when he was nearly intoxicated with exhaustion.

  


But Griffon did not need to know that. He'd be ready to fight what may come, as he always was.

  


Without further ado, V reached for his cane, unimpressed as his eyes watched the feathered demon closely, searching for sign of mischief. He still expected a modicum of respect.

  


“Oh come on Shakespeare, we don't got all night.” Griffon huffed annoyed, thrusting the metal cane into V's open and willing hand.

  


“Thank you.”

  


He figured he at least owed the demon that much. For the cooperation if anything.

  


“Yeah yeah -- so what are we doing out here. It's a little late for sightseeing.”

  


“Can't you hear that?”

  


“What? The wild life? Probably some lesser demon fucking around -- why does it even matter? Hey -- hey V wait! V!”

  


With a roll of his eyes, V starts towards the incessant sound -- or more accurately, he starts towards his best guess. The high pitched keen echoed, bouncing off buildings effectively hiding the creatures location. And perhaps it was the only thing keeping it alive, as V would assume something so loud would be hunted down by demons the second it had made its presence known, demon or not.

  


He certainly wasn't a stranger to demons attacking other demons.

  


The next sound that echoes across the space is definitely a growl, much lower in pitch, much _closer_ as well. It takes V a few seconds to connect the dots, casting his glance downwards to frown at Shadow, now wrapped around his legs, and no longer ink on his skin.


	2. The hunt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this is the chapter with the mention of past animal death in a flashback.
> 
>  
> 
> Also angst.

 

An hour and some into their search, V finds himself inelegantly crouched on all fours, decorum be damned as his knees dig painfully into the asphalt, and his hands scrape against the stray bits of rubble from where the road beneath him had cracked under the pressure of the Qliphoth.

 

It's the stubbornness seemingly shared by all of Sparda's descendants that makes him pay no mind to the compromising position, leaning downwards instead to duck his head till he can make out the underside of the totalled vehicle.

 

Its most likely another futile attempt at locating the noisy creature, he realizes, but Shadow had gone straight for this car in specific amongst all the rest in the abandoned parking lot. They had been getting warmer and warmer, the sound growing louder the closer they got. He knows it's here. Shadow knows it's here, and that's all the confirmation V needs to literally get on the ground to scout the source himself.

 

But all V sees at first is more rubble, more roots, the occasional piece of trash such as empty cans, bottles, plastic bags --

 

Ah.

 

“Is that a -- here?! In the middle of a whole ass demon apocalypse?! Is this shit for real?!” V can hear Griffon guffaw incredulous, from somewhere behind him. And for once V finds himself in nothing but plain unadulterated agreement.

 

They've located the source of the sound, alright.

 

And it's a round _tiny_ ball of grey fur, solid in some areas, and littered with white splotches in others. It's wet, and dirty, and visibly shaking with it's ears pressed flat against its tiny head and its tail wrapped tightly around its body, making itself impossibly even smaller.

 

V can see it clearly now, as it cries again from where its jammed itself between an empty beer carton and a large rock -- and it's truly such a pathetic sight in of its own. The high pitched cries do nothing to aid it, the kittens mouth opening wide to scream even louder now that it's spotted V as well. It's ears momentarily lift in unison in search for a response -- most likely from its mother, V can safely assume, completely at a loss.

 

It's such a _small_ creature, it has the man struggling to wrap his mind around how it got there in the first place. Its small and so _fragile_ looking -- nothing more than a quick snack to the lucky passerby lesser demon. Realistically it would have nowhere to run, nowhere to truly hide -- not with the current state of the city. It might find food, amongst the wreckage and the abandoned buildings, but at the end of the day it's still at the bottom of Red Graves current food chain.

 

It's a miracle in itself that its managed to survive so long.

 

V is suddenly met with the oddest feeling of dread, already wracking his brain for any sort of information left behind by Vergil on what the procedure for these sort of situations would be. It's becoming increasingly clearer that if he hopes for the tiny creature to survive, he's going to have to somehow convince it to leave the temporary safety the underside of the vehicle is currently providing it with.

 

But V cannot for the life of him remember if anything remotely similar has happened before in their past, and for a moment he wonders if the information went to Urizen, somewhere between Vergil stabbing himself and his soul splitting cleanly in half, cleaving man from devil.

 

At the very least it makes for an amusing thought, as frustrating as it may be.

 

Vergil was not a cat person -- or an animal person in general; which by extension made V completely inadequate in this field.

 

Blessed, their mother had tried. Family friends brought their pets over during social visits, but neither of the twins had ever shown a shred of interest in the notion of owning a pet. Much more invested in smacking each other with practise swords till they eventually collapsed exhausted.

 

V almost regrets not acquiring that knowledge, now that it has suddenly become painfully relevant. Perhaps he should have pet Mr. Snuffles when he had the chance.

 

But before V can continue down that path of missed opportunities, Shadow appears in his line of sight, clearly much more adept at this than V could ever hope to be, as he watches the panther circle the vehicle with enthusiasm. Once, twice, then three times, chittering in what V can only assume is an attempt to coax the skeptical kitten out from beneath the wreckage.

 

He can see the demons large black paws hit the ground on the other side, through the crack between the road and the underside of the pickup truck. Only to then round the corner, black inky fur dragging against the ruined front bumper -- _marking it, V realizes belatedly --_ making her way towards the dark haired man only to brush up against the back of V's worn down leather coat, then passing him by without as much as a glance.

 

It's rinse and repeat from there -- four, five, six times.

 

V starts losing count, uninterested -- attention better suited elsewhere.

 

Shadow is restless. V can sense it, through their contract. It's a peculiar feeling, but not entirely unwelcome.

 

_I'm the bigger cat. You are but a mere kitten. Come here. Here is safe. You are mine._

 

The absurdity of such a basic and animalistic feeling almost rips a surprised incredulous chuckle out of him as well. He's not quite sure _what_ he expected from his companion, but it certainly was not this blatant showcase of feline instincts. Griffon seems to agree, the loudmouth silent for once, watching his peer closely with awestruck curiosity written all over the demons expression, wings beating in place to keep him afloat in the air above.

 

The whole spectacle playing before them is somewhat endearing, V concedes. Unexpected, but endearing nonetheless.

 

Though he _is_ fairly well versed in demon lore -- thanks to Vergil; he knows there's typically two ways these things can go, when it comes to demons, and spawn.

 

The most common scenario consists of the adult demon regarding their offspring as nothing more than easy food, in the hopes of regaining their strength quickly after weeks of violent mating, so that they may resume procreating as soon as possible. It's a gruesome sight, one V does not particularly care to recall. Vergil had been mildly disgusted as well upon stumbling on the discovery, mixed with a good dose of arrogant amusement somewhere in there.

 

Alternatively, the second _less_ common scenario is thankfully not as graphic: the demonic parents are overprotective of their nestlings, hyperalert, and more outwardly aggressive -- a warning, usually, to steer clear lest you decapitate yourself on their claws.

 

Typically the latter can be found in demons of higher intelligence -- _devils_ , to be precise, who tend to put emphasis on things such as heirs, pushing for the strongest out of the bunch to make its presence known amongst its siblings- the majority of the time through bloodshed.

 

V suddenly finds himself hoping what he's witnessing really is the latter. He's not entirely sure if he cares to see the small kitten turn into nothing but live kibble for his familiar.

 

He can sense Griffon openly share the sentiment.

 

Shadow is a -- _complex_ demon, neither devil nor your everyday pest. She had come from Vergil after all -- his Whole, and a half devil himself. A nightmare given form, a physical manifestation of trauma, making Shadow a truly fascinating creature, begging questions of which not even V has all the answers to.

 

But V knows they cannot afford to dally much longer; he knows the demons are coming.

 

V can fight, of course -- it feels like the only thing he's been doing since the day he was born; but he cannot ensure the kittens survival should a fight break out right then and there. In a way, it is just nature enforcing its rules. It's a kill or get killed world, now more than ever with all the demons roaming freely and mostly unchecked, and if the kitten cannot protect itself, there is nothing V can do to change that, nor the course of nature for that matter.

 

"Oh please tell me you are not thinking what I think you're thinking right now, _princess -_ -"

 

"Silence, Griffon. Lest you alert every demon in the vicinity."

 

He was not bringing the cat back with him.

 

He couldn't.

 

They're in the middle of the equivalent of a demon apocalypse. There are demons scuttering in every corner of the city, roots everywhere, and they _absolutely_ did not have the time to look after a cat on top of it all.

 

But that was just the problem at hand, wasn't it. It's a demon apocalypse, and they've already made great efforts to evacuate all remaining survivors, ushering them out of the city as quickly as possible -- though it seems in their haste, this one was left behind.

 

The thought does something strange to V's chest, the muscles around his heart tightening uncomfortably in a way V does not like. He knows he's technically running out of time -- quite literally. He needs to make a decision, and he needs to make it now. Either way there's most certainly going to be a fight, he just needs to know if he'll be responsible for another fragile life in the midst of battle so he may plan ahead as much as time allows him to.

 

He can already begin to hear the hissing and broken distorted croaks of a nearby demon variety pack, and he doesn't have to see them making a beeline for him to know their position has already been compromised on smell alone.

 

V was currently sporting a human presence, after all, and demons primary and preferred feeding source was human flesh and blood. The math practically did itself.

 

_Though Griffon's inability to shut up definitely helped_

 

But the decision had already been made, hadn't it. Both Griffon and Shadow seem to know this as well, as green eyes catch his companions move out of the corner of his eye, positioning themselves around V as they crowd him against the car, their backs turned and their attention focused on their surroundings. They seemed to know before even V himself could acknowledge it, his familiars growing defensive, a low and dangerous growl ripping from the panthers throat, as Griffon moved to hover above the large cat, ready to strike down anything that dared get too close.

 

They're making the _executive_ decision _for him_. As V sits there pathetically, immobilized by indecisiveness.

 

He can already hear _Dante --_ a Dante from long ago, young brash voice screaming in his head with all the blindsighted rage of a hot tempered half devil, calling him infantile names only worthy of another six year old. _Cruel and cold_ are definitely amongst them, and V can't help but take a certain level of offence at the memory, to the assumptions so blatantly made out of hurt, words holding no real weight to them, their only purpose to _cut_ _deep and hurt_ as much as Dante had hurt.

 

All over an _animal._

 

It had been a baby bird at the time, not a kitten.

 

Dante had found it whilst playing outside on a spring evening -- _it had been a sparrow, V recalls with ease._ It had fallen out of its nest, as unfortunately many tend to do, but Dante -- _oh so very optimistic Dante,_ had gasped with concerned awe, sprinting to the opposite side of the small playground on their parents property to collect his brother. Grasped by the wrist, V recalls being dragged along.

 

' _Verge! Look! We can't just leave it there!'_

 

Their first mistake had been meddling with what mother nature had intended.

 

But they didn't care, not at the time. Too young to understand the nature of life, they had both cradled the minuscule creature between their tiny hands, bringing it back to their mother with pleas and cries for help.

 

It had died no more than 24 hours later.

 

Dante cried.

 

And Vergil had bit his lip till it spilt blood across his pristine black shirt, holding onto the tears, swallowing them -- _forcing_ them down. He had to be strong for Dante, for his baby brother.

 

Their mother had held them afterwards. Both of their heads burrowed into the crook of her neck, one on each side, as they experienced their first death. And then, in the comforting encompassing warmth of their mothers arms, the dam cracked, before breaking down completely as his heavy sobs littered with desperate hiccups had echoed his brothers, gasps ripped from his small body in the futile attempt to fill his lungs of the oxygen the _pain_ deprived him of.

 

They could not save it -- _they could not save it_.

 

Oh, if only Vergil knew it would not stop there, in the warmth of an embrace soon to be precociously ripped from them as well.

 

"V!" Griffon yelps, as two things happen in quick succession.

 

A demon lands atop the vehicle, slamming into it with all its unnatural force, _loudly_ rattling the entire metal frame.

 

And then the kitten bolts from beneath it, booking it as flight overrides fight -- _as it should be --_ and V can feel the tiny thing rush between his unsteady knees.

 

The man has only a split second to really digest what just happened, a gasp leaving his lips as he scrambles backwards and onto his feet, reaching blindly for his cane to aid him in pushing himself upright.

 

And then V does the only thing he _can_ _think_ _to do_ on such short notice.

 

He whips himself around so harshly he can feel each vertebrae in his lower back _pop_ with a satisfying sound.

 

And then he lunges for it.

 

His cane falls to the ground once more with a loud clatter when V unceremoniously drops it, as he all but practically throws himself at the frantic ball of fur.

 

He's not sure what he expected to accomplish with such a rash split second decision -- he had not thought this through, evidently, acting upon his own instinct.

 

But V definitely does not expect to _succeed_ in his do-now-think-later plan -- _if it could even be called that_. The damn thing is fast, extremely so; which would definitely serve in its favor had V not been able to catch it.

 

But he does.

 

He catches it, long fingers webbing around the ball of fur, before he quickly shifts to grab onto the kittens scruff, effectively immobilizing it.

 

And for a second V finds himself immobilized as well by the shock of it all. The kitten is surprisingly warm against his bare chest -- _alive._

 

_V had caught it._

 

It's enough to knock him right out of his momentary stillness as he quickly fumbles for his cane once more, a white knuckled death grip on the kittens scruff.

 

He caught it; _he's_ _not letting it get away now, only for it to get run through by an Empusa of all things._ He had made up his mind, and Vergil _never_ half assed anything.

 

He had to focus. It's not just his own crumbling flesh he's responsible for now.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Btw sorry for any errors. I've had a couple of people read it over but no real beta ; v ;

**Author's Note:**

> Please let the man rest.
> 
> Also I foresee this having about 3 chapters? Maybe 4?


End file.
